"Look at 'em!" said Bentham. "You've got to credit the bastards!"
"Aye," said Flint, as the ghost of pride arose, "it takes the navy to do that!"
Flint and Bentham meant what they said. They honestly believed they'd never see a finer sight. But they were wrong.
"Joe?" said a familiar voice, right alongside.
Flint turned into a cloud of colour. He'd been so entranced, he'd never noticed. But there it was: a shoal of women in their gowns. He didn't know how many there were because he saw only one — Selena… Selena in the yellow silk gown. He'd seen her before a thousand times, but never like this.
His jaw dropped. A shudder ran up his body from ankles to neck. He shivered and marvelled as the thunderbolt struck. Never — not ever, in all his life — had he seen a creature so beautiful. Everything he'd ever thought about Selena came together like broken fragments magically reforming as a vase.
And of course, in the same instant, he realised that she was a goddess.
The filthy acts men performed upon whores could never be applied to her.
Tears sprang from his eyes.
She was a thousand miles from him.
Flint was true to his upbringing, and in Hell his father smiled.
"Selena…" said Flint.
"Joseph," she said, "may I introduce…" and she brought forward a gaggle of women, one of whom seemed to be Pimenta's wife, and they simpered and smiled, and all the while he gazed at Selena. A wooden block could have seen the worship in his mind, and she certainly could… as could her companions; and she registered the tremendous envy in their eyes. For Flint was a dazzlingly handsome man and — in their innocence — they must have supposed that his character matched his beauty.
Selena sighed. What did they know? What could she say? So she faced front, raised her head, and fell back on good manners. She spoke, but Flint didn't hear at first. He was away in his dreams.
"Joseph?" she said. "Joseph!"
"What?" he said finally.
"Who are these gentlemen?" she was saying. Flint turned to look.
"Oh!" he said. "May I present Captain Daniel Bentham, and…"
Flint stopped, hit by a second bolt.
Danny Bentham was positively grovelling before Selena. Any lower and he'd have hit the ground. He had hold of the hand she'd offered, and was slobbering over it while gazing at Serena in naked, drooling adoration. Flint could all but hear the pulse that beat in his veins.
It wasn't only Joe Flint that had been pierced to the heart by a beautiful lady in a beautiful gown.
Chapter 19
The frigate's guns flashed and thundered as she led her consorts splendidly past Fort Johnson, and saluted the British Flag. She stormed past the six ships of the Patanq fleet and comprehensively ignored them, for they were mean and shabby vessels compared with herself, and she was on the king's own duty besides.
Aboard Lucy May — the nearest equivalent within the Patanq fleet to a flagship — the passing of the squadron caused a tremendous stir, such that the vessel almost rolled gunwale under as three hundred members of the Patanq nation surged forward for a better view.
"Belay that!" cried Captain Noll Foster. "The buggers is only saluting the fucking fort!" But they paid him no attention; not the women and children, anyway. These terrified creatures simply yelled and pointed and climbed into the rigging… and then when they saw that there was no risk to themselves, their mood spun on a sixpence and they laughed and joked and the children made faces at Foster and chattered at him.
"Get out o' them fuckin' shrouds, there!" cried Foster, yelling at the children. They jabbered and laughed all the more, so he turned to two Patanq men who stood apart from the rest. "I say!" he said. "I say there! Can't you get them little sods out o' the fuckin' rigging?"
The two Patanq so addressed were Dreamer and Dark Hand. Dreamer stared at Foster till the other blinked, then said a word to Dark Hand, who snapped his fingers, and the children fell silent, and stopped playing, and climbed back on deck and went softly to their mothers.
"Huh!" said Foster. "Fuckin' little sods!" And he stalked off to the stern, to be with his crew. He was more comfortable there. Among them he could convince himself he was still in command. The two Patanq watched him go. They spoke in their own language.
"Always these same words," said Dark Hand. "Fucking… sod… bugger."
"Yes," said the other, "they cannot speak without them."
"Tell me, Dreamer, you are wise: do these words have any meaning?"
"Oh yes," said Dreamer, "but mainly they are used to strike blows."
"The French have similar words," said Dark Hand.
"And the Spanish," said Dreamer, "and the Germans. All of them do."
"And we have none!"
"Except those we have learned from these… buggers," said Dreamer, and smiled. Dark Hand would have smiled too, but these days it was hard to smile in Dreamer's company for he looked so ill. The lifelong affliction — the curse that he'd suffered since childhood — was striking so often now, and worse than ever, bringing pain and dark visions. Not all of these proved true, for Dreamer's visions never told the entire truth, but always they were disturbing and tormenting.
"What about them?" said Dark Hand, looking at the passing squadron. "They are a great force of arms. What do they mean to us?" He glanced at the Patanq warriors, on this ship and on the rest. All were gazing at the warships. "They will ask this question."
"Yes," said Dreamer, "and they should! It means the Charlestownians will feel stronger. Perhaps they will turn their guns on us. We are only here because we gave gold to their leaders…" He waved a hand towards the city. "And now we have been here forty-seven days, and they want us gone even more than we ourselves wish to be gone."
Dark Hand looked at the stern of the ship where Foster the shipmaster stood with his men. They too were staring at the new ships, pointing and talking, and looking through their telescopes.
"Forty-seven days!" said Dark Hand. "Are we being cheated, Dreamer? They find one reason after another. Always a good reason, but still we do not leave this place."
Dreamer thought hard. First it had been "unfavourable winds". This lasted two weeks. Foster said it was common for the winds to blow the wrong way, and the other sailors clearly agreed. But then, when the wind was good, even as the fleet was raising its anchors, one of the ships was found to be leaking badly. The ensuing repairs took two weeks and cost more gold. And then another ship was found to have foul water in the great casks down below, so that had to be replaced, for she couldn't sail without drinking water. And so it went on, always at great expense.
"Dreamer," said Dark Hand, "do they cheat us?"
"I think not," said Dreamer, and looked at the fleet. "But I fear these ships are bad ships. With so many shipmasters refusing even to speak to us, we had to take what we could get," he sighed. "And what do we know of ships?" He looked at Foster, and frowned. "Bring him here," he said. "We cannot judge ships, but we can judge men."
Soon Foster stood before Dark Hand and Dreamer. He cast frequent glances over his shoulder, peering through the fifty Patanq warriors who had gathered around him to the quarterdeck, where his crew looked on anxiously. They had pistols in their belts and a few were armed with swords or hangers, but it wouldn't do them a scrap of good if the savages turned nasty, not when they were so outnumbered by the murdering, blood-drinking, heathen! He swallowed, his mouth dry. He was master of the ship in name only.